


in matters of the heart

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 15:38:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: dele is injured, eric is worried, and communication is key.or,"It's not your fault," Eric says. He curves his fingers around the ball of Dele's shoulder and squeezes tight. He wants to give his best friend a shake, to drop to his knees and give him a load of promises he can't keep - anything to take that look off of his face, anything at all, but Dele doesn't want to hear it."Isn't it?" The younger man asks miserably, twisting out of Eric's grip so fast he barely has time to react. He stands, blanket falling into a heap, and turns away, head in his hands. From here, Eric can physically see the injury; a dark bruise is blossoming up the back of Dele's thigh, blue and purple and curling around the muscle. "I don't want to talk about it. Not tonight, alright? Just take my mind off it."





	in matters of the heart

**Author's Note:**

> welcome! 
> 
> in this fic, they're not together (yet), because who needs consistency, am i rite? 
> 
> i know the game was like, almost three weeks ago, but i'm lazy and then real life caught up with me, and my desire to be creative was at an all time low. now i'm just kind of sick of looking at it, so here it is.
> 
> i really hope you like it more than i do.
> 
> feedback always appreciated, thank you for reading!! xxxx

As soon as he sees Dele crumple, Eric’s heart is in his mouth.

The pain in his thigh is obvious, face contorted with it – teeth digging into his lip so hard that he must be close to drawing blood, fingers splayed around the back of his leg, eyes screwed shut. He’s breathing harshly, hissed little exhales punctuated with whimpers. 

Eric wants to go over, wants to curl his arms around his best friend’s shoulders and check he’s okay, whisper reassurances. He wants to _be there_ , but just as he’s about to make his way to the sideline, two medics come rushing to the scene, kit bags half unzipped and ready to do their jobs.

The game continues. The sound of the referee’s whistle makes his ears ring, feels like it’s splitting right through the middle of his brain, but he has no choice. The show must go on, although Eric’s never wanted to be part of anything that doesn’t feature Dele. 

He can hear his teammates shouting directions, Winksy waving his arms and Lloris gesturing wildly at everyone to get back into position, but it feels like his head is full of cotton wool. Nothing goes in, and it definitely doesn't stick. He's not even sure if he can remember how to play football.

Dele limps down the sideline, only a few metres away from where Eric is standing, and the older man can’t help but crane his neck to watch. It breaks his heart in two, and if he was a weaker man there would be a lump in his throat, but his eyes stay dry.

All these weeks of Dele ribbing him, joking about when they finally get to play again… And they can barely last five minutes on the pitch together. 

The ball flies straight past Eric’s feet in a blur of white and he can feel Danny’s glare on the back of his head, but none of that matters. All that matters is the sight of Dele shrugging on his jacket, and GK jogging on in place of him.

It all feels wrong, but he takes comfort in the fact that there’s only a few minutes left of the game. He needs to keep his head screwed on, just till the final whistle. Five minutes. Three hundred seconds.

He can do that.

The time passes quickly, and Eric’s thankful. He couldn’t deal with the seconds ticking by painfully slow, dragging until he feels like he’s been there for hours. His entire mind is focused on one thing: Dele. Getting to Dele. Checking Dele is okay. Reassuring Dele. Just… Just Dele.

They win, in the end. Winksy scores with a belting header after a cross from GK, and Eric celebrates, of course he does. He jogs up to Harry, little Harry who’s beaming so hard it looks like it’s going to split his face in half, and throws his arms around him. 

He’s proud, of course he is. And he knows that it probably wouldn’t have happened if Dele hadn’t have been subbed off, if he wasn't injured – but at what cost? 

The victory is sweet, he can't deny that. He'd watched the first half with a constant wince on his face, and when he'd come on he had been determined to turn the game around, but Dele's injury had him crashing back down to earth with a bang.

So the fizz the victory may be sweet on his tongue, but it still tastes cheap. Like cava, instead of the thousand pound champagne he was promised.

Eric gets swept up in the excitement eventually. He can't help it: Winksy is bouncing around like a puppy on cocaine, Coco is grinning like a madman, and even Kieran is hugging everyone he comes across. It's like a hurricane, a hurricane of joy and happiness and noise, sweeping him up and pulling him along for the ride.

He doesn't forget about Dele, though. That's impossible. The thought is there, niggling at the back of his mind. It's burned into his retinas, the sight of his best friend's devastated face, and the guilt of celebrating makes him feel sick. He needs to find out what's going on, needs to finally be put at ease.

He grabs Poch as soon as he sees him, all thoughts of the win out of his mind. "What's going on?" He asks - _demands_ \- while quite literally grabbing his manager. He fists his hands in the sleeves of Mauricio's jacket, but the older man must see the look in his eyes, because he doesn't complain. “Where’s Dele?”

“Back to Enfield,” Poch says. There’s a grimace on his face, and the excited glint that should be in his eyes after a win is gone. Instead, he looks resigned: another injury, another player out. “We sent him to medical. He will not be training tomorrow, that is certain.” 

Eric lets his hands drop from where they were fisted in his manager’s jacket, suddenly too tired to keep up his facade. The weariness spreads through him like fire, to the tips of his toes and right down to his bones, and he swipes a hand across his forehead.

Pochettino disappears as soon as he can, clearly sensing the changing mood, and Eric may be in a room full of people, but –

Without Dele, he’s never felt so alone.

.

His entire body feels like lead as he drags himself out of bed at six am sharp. 

It’s not like he’s not a morning person – usually, he’s up at the crack of dawn with a smile, jumping in the shower and mentally going through his training for the day. Breakfast and a coffee, and then onto Dele’s, because he’s the very definition of _not_ a morning person and needs a little help.

Today, he doesn’t need to stop by Dele’s. He’d texted last night, just for confirmation, but he already knew from Poch’s tone. It’s bad, but they won’t know exactly how bad it is until later. Maybe that’s why Eric is so reluctant to get through the day. 

Nobody else seems to care – not as much as Eric does, anyway. They ask questions for all of two minutes, shouting over each other like a bunch of school kids until the manager raises his hands, and feeds them some bullshit, _it’s a shame that we have lost so many, but we are a team and we can adapt, we carry on_. 

That seems to settle the rest of them, but it feels like there’s a stone sinking into Eric’s stomach. Adapting, carrying on… It sounds final. 

He sits alone at lunch. It might be by choice, but it might not be; he’s in a bad mood and he’s been quiet all day, so he’s not really up for company. At the same time, he notices that Coco seems to get even more brooding than usual when they’re paired up for an exercise. He wouldn’t be surprised if they’re simply staying away from him. He’d do the same. 

Dele is in this building. Somewhere out of sight and not out of reach, but not out of mind. Eric’s not sure where, because nobody would tell him – they think he’s a distraction, that Dele wouldn’t be taking his examination seriously, which is probably true.

But isn’t this _more_ of a distraction?

Either way, he doesn’t have a choice in the matter, so instead of going to find his best friend, he pulls out his phone, tapping on his WhatsApp chat with Dele. He gets lost in it for a few minutes, reading through their most recent messages.

**Sorry I missed you, Diet. Have fun celebrating x**

_Don’t be sorry. What about you? How are you feeling?_

**In pain. I’ll know more tomorrow, I’ll text you x**

**Goodnight. X**

Eric didn’t have it in himself to reply, so he’d just turned his phone off and went to bed. But now, he wishes he had – wishes he’d pressed Dele on the matter, gotten him to open up, talk about his fears for the team and regrets from the game. He wants to hear it all, have his own thoughts relayed back to him.

Eric doesn’t like feeling alone.

He starts typing before he can think twice about it, presses send before the hesitation can set in, and then only reads the message once before he slides his phone back in his pocket, but the words are still bouncing around his brain.

_Quiet without you. Miss you xx_

It’s not a lie. In fact, it’s the most honest Eric has ever been, and that’s what scares him the most.

.

The thing is… The thing is that they’ve been back and forth since, really, the moment they first met. Back and forth between what, Eric doesn’t know. He can’t put a name to it – friends and not friends, something more, something _better_.

Something that terrifies Eric.

They don’t talk about it. They should, probably, because it seems like the most sensible thing to do, but Eric wouldn’t know where to start, and Dele… Well, Dele may talk a lot, but he doesn’t talk about anything in particular. It took months before he opened up about his family, hushed under the cover of darkness, using it like shield.

Eric's heart had broken into two right there, and there was only one thing on his mind as he'd held a shaking Dele in his arms: _I love you I love you I love you_.

From that night on, things had changed between them. It was hesitant, tentative - but it was still a huge thing. Like a boundary that was meant to be broken, although neither one of them had dared to go there.

It changed a lot of things, really. Dele was tactile, and he always had been (the very first time they'd met, he'd pulled Eric into a crushing hug, hands splayed across the width of the older man's shoulders), but it was... Different. It was different now. Every single touch seemed softer, held a more meaningful intent. Eric knew he was setting himself up for pain, but he couldn't help but cling to it.

They spent countless nights, sharing stories and laughing and eating food that would make the nutritionist blush, and it was so easy. Tangling fingers, legs thrown over thighs, arms around shoulders. Curling up on respective sides of the bed, and somehow, ending up pressed together head to toe by morning.

It was easy. Easy enough that it made Eric want to lean closer, brush the back of his fingers along the smooth skin of Dele's cheek, and fit their mouths together. It made him want to fist his hand in Dele's hair and tip his head back, peppering kisses down the hollow of his throat, drinking in every noise he made.

Somehow, he has a feeling that Dele wouldn't mind, and it would be so, so easy...

But that's a little too close to talking about it, and every time Eric gets close, fear strikes him right in the stomach. Makes him feel sick, sizzling acid and burning eyes, until he forces a neutral smile onto his face and pretends he wasn't thinking about it.

The line between the two things just keeps getting thinner and thinner. Like an elastic band, ready to snap, and Eric is terrified that he's going to get hurt by the rebound.

.

Eric's more tired than ever when he gets home after training. His eyelids are heavy and all his joints ache, and he wants to fall into bed and sleep for a week, but he hasn't heard back from Dele.

He knows that his best friend left the training facility before he did. Knows because he was making his way through the maze of corridors towards the rehab wing, and Poch stopped him with a hand to his chest, frown on his face. 

And yet, he still hasn't heard from Dele. He has no idea about the discussion that took place, or the feelings that are taking over Dele's mind. He's clueless, and it's the not knowing that makes it worse. It's the gaps that his brain are filling in that makes him feel like he's drowning.

**Bad news**

That's all Dele's text says. No prewarning, no pretence. No kiss at the end, either, which is how Eric knows something is really, really wrong. He doesn't pause for a second before he picks up his car keys and heads out of the house, heart dropping straight to his stomach.

It only takes ten minutes, and the roads are clear, but Eric feels impatient anyway. He's never gone over the speed limit, and he wouldn't now, but every time Dele's devastated face flashes into his mind, his foot presses a little harder on the pedal and his fingertips tap restlessly against the wheel.

He has a spare key for Dele's house - the younger man would lose his head if it wasn't screwed on, and Eric has to use his leg more often than not - but this time, it feels wrong. Feels like he's intruding on something private, but when has that ever mattered between the two of them?

"Del?" He calls, hanging his jacket up in the hallway. He's still in his training clothes, muscles aching from the day's activities, but none of that matters as he steps through to the living room and sees his best friend on the sofa, blanket around his shoulders and cup of tea in his hands. "How did it go? How are you?"

"Sore," Dele says with a sigh, glancing up at Eric. He looks... sad, just so sad, and Eric drops onto the couch next to him, arm stretched along the back. "It's- I'm gonna be out for at least six weeks, Eric. Pulled my hamstring. _Six weeks_."

Dele takes the invitation for what it is, and leans his weight against Eric's side as his head finds a place on the older man's chest. He seems to relax, fraction by fraction, and breathes out slowly. Eric assumes he hasn't done an awful lot of that over the last twenty four hours.

"It's not that long," Eric says, trying to offer _something_ to make Dele feel better. He tightens his arm around his best friend's shoulders, and gets a cold nose to his collarbone in response. "Early March. Might be sooner."

"With our luck?" Dele says, voice curt as his body tenses again. Eric can practically hear the wheels turning in his head, nothing but self deprecation. "As if. I can't fucking- I can't believe this has happened again!"

"It's not your fault," Eric says. He curves his fingers around the ball of Dele's shoulder and squeezes tight. He wants to give his best friend a shake, to drop to his knees and give him a load of promises he can't keep - anything to take that look off of his face, anything at all, but Dele doesn't want to hear it.

"Isn't it?" The younger man asks miserably, twisting out of Eric's grip so fast he barely has time to react. He stands, blanket falling into a heap, and turns away, head in his hands. From here, Eric can physically see the injury; a dark bruise is blossoming up the back of Dele's thigh, blue and purple and curling around the muscle. "I don't want to talk about it. Not tonight, alright? Just take my mind off it."

Eric breathes out a deep sigh, rubbing his hand across his forehead. He can't take his eyes off of the bruise, wants to touch it, make sure that it's really not worse than he was told and Dele isn't playing it down, but it's not his place. "We could play Fifa?" He suggests, for lack of anything else.

"No," Dele says quietly. Eric would have missed the word, could have, but he's always listening to Dele. Always has an eye on him, half a mind focused on the younger man, because he can't seem to stop.

"Dele-" Eric says, but he's cut off by Dele spinning around with a determined look on his face.

"Kiss me," he whispers. His voice doesn't match his tone at all - he sounds a little hesitant, nervous, and it's so unlike Dele that it makes Eric's stomach do somersaults. Butterflies are caged behind his ribs, fighting to get out. "Please. Kiss me."

"I don't think..." Eric says, then trails off when he has nothing else to say. Is it a good idea? Definitely not, but it's something he's been thinking about for (years) months. And he can't lie to Dele. That's never been possible. Maybe that's why they get on so well - Dele sees through his bullshit, and Eric doesn't have the heart to give him anything less than what he deserves.

He stands up so he's facing his best friend, because he feels too vulnerable at a lower level. This isn't the time for vulnerability, because Dele smells it like a shark smells blood in the water, biding his time and waiting for the attack. He needs to be Eric, right now - Eric Dier, who always knows what to say in interviews, who does the right thing, who's knowledge is written across his face.

But that doesn't mean a damn thing to Dele.

"But I do!" Dele says. It comes out sounding petulant, like he's one step away from stomping his foot, but he stays still. His jaw is clenched and his fingers are curled into fists, and is that... Is he _crying_? His eyes are wet, and Eric's chest aches with it. "I do, Eric."

"No, Del," Eric says, hating the way his voice cracks at the end. If he thought he was tired before, it's nothing compared to how he feels now, and he crosses his arms across his chest. A defence mechanism, as if Dele can't see everything that's written across his face anyway. "I'm not..."

_I'm not going to let you use me._

The unspoken words hang in the air between them, thick and black and ugly, and Eric almost regrets saying it. Almost, except his mum always told him that honesty was the best policy, and rejecting Dele in any other capacity seems impossible.

Dele doesn't see it that way. His face falls, looking somewhere between crushed and devastated, and he takes a hurried step back. Betrayal, that's what it is. Disbelief. Feeling like he doesn't really know what kind of person Eric is.

"It's not- it's not because of my injury!" Dele snaps, affronted that Eric could even think such a thing. Still, almost on instinct, his hand goes down to curve around the back of his thigh as he winces. "I've wanted this for so long, Eric! How did you not know? Are you thick, or summat?"

And just like that, the boundary is broken.

Eric feels like he's falling, spinning through the air with no parachute and no idea where he's going to land. He's dizzy with it, clouding his vision and making his lungs ache every time he takes a breath, but everything has narrowed down to Dele.

"What?" He manages to gasp out, voice hoarse. He doesn't know if he's holding back tears or if it's just that all the oxygen has left the room, but he raises a hand to wipe at his cheeks anyway. They come away slightly damp.

"You're an idiot," Dele says impatiently, face contorted with it. He crosses his arms and shifts from foot to foot, before his entire posture softens and he takes a step forward. "Eric Dier, I really like you. I always have, and I can't believe you haven't noticed. I think everyone else has seen it, but you..."

He sighs, unfolding his arms and reaching across to take Eric's hands, smiling ever so slightly when the older man doesn't snatch his hands away.

"Don't you have anything to say?" He asks, when the silence stretches on too long. Eric doesn't mean for it to, he really doesn't - he's just so overwhelmed with this knowledge, and the thought that this could have saved him an awful lot of pining over the last few years.

"S- sorry," he stutters out. It's like the fog has finally lifting, a fog that he hadn't realised has been there for their entire friendship, and he's seeing Dele in a brand new light. He's always had that view, of course, but it wasn't as bright as this. It wasn't as obvious. "You mean it?"

Dele drops Eric's hands like they're burning, and for a second, the older man thinks that he's changed his mind. Done a full one eighty turn to play it off as banter, friendly jibes, and they'll be back to square one.

It doesn't feel all that friendly to Eric.

But none of that happens. Instead, a small smile stretches across Dele's face, lighting him up from the inside out as he curves his palm around Eric's cheek. His thumb brushes across his beard, back and forth until Eric is mesmerised and his breath catches in his throat.

_This is happening. This is really happening._

"Okay?" Dele asks, barely a whisper, but it curls through Eric's ears and wraps around his mind like silk. It occurs to him then that he hasn't said anything, that he hasn't told Dele how he feels - and now he can't quite find the words. That doesn't matter, because who really needs to speak?

So he leans forward, shuddering out as a sigh as he closes the gap between them. The kiss is simple; soft and dry, Dele's tongue darting out to brush against Eric's lower lip, but it feels like everything. Like fireworks and sparks and warm sunny days in the Algarve, like winning a game and having the entire of Wembley behind you.

It feels like that, and so much more.

Dele pulls back first with a shuddery sigh, dark eyelashes casting shadows across the sharpness of his cheekbones, and Eric can't stop staring. He's transfixed: the small smile making the bow of Dele's mouth soft, the slight flush of his skin, the happiness that seems to be radiating from him. 

_I did that_ , he thinks, and can't stop himself from drawing the younger man into a hug. 

"Why did it take you that long?" Dele says suddenly, breaking the tranquility of the moment with a sharp laugh. Eric is glad – at least he knows he's not the only one feeling like this, like his world has been turned upside down and then the right way again. His mind is rocked. "We definitely should've done that ages ago."

Eric can't help the laugh that bubbles up his throat, sweeter than he's ever heard himself before. "Shut up," he whispers, because it's the only thing he can think of saying. 

He curves his palm around Dele's cheek, leans in and kisses him again. Doesn't savour it, because he doesn't have to. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. The warmth of it spreads behind his ribs, stings at his eyes, and he holds Dele impossibly closer.

This is the new normal.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [bami-dele](https://bami-dele.tumblr.com/) xo


End file.
